Ingrid hated it all. The paving stones, the frost on the bricks of buildings, the wind, the water, the freezing mud--she hated it all with a deep, yet listless, passion. As she trudged past a small house in her mud-spattered men’s working boots, she looked inside, drinking up the homey scene like a starving child would drink up hot soup.

A tall, squarish woman was dropping an extra log on the smokey little fireplace as a heavyset man in a worker’s smock bounced a giggling cherub of a child on his knee. On the rough hewn wooden table, a sparse, simple feast was laid, steaming and obviously freshly prepared. As she watched, the family gathered around the table and began to eat, mouthful after mouthful, causing Ingrid’s stomach to groan and remind her that she had not eaten anything since yesterday morning. Suddenly, she hated this little family in their tiny house and smokey fireplace. Suddenly spiteful, she threw a heavy piece of ice at the window, smashing it. As a startled "Oh!" came from within, she ran away, ashamed with herself.

Her mind wandered to the children who had once been her own cherubs. For a moment, she closed her eyes and returned to the little house as she saw it in her memory... except, instead of the family that lived there, she saw herself and Pierre. Herself, Pierre, her two daughters. Ingrid’s heart twisted as she reminded herself that all little boys were treacherous monsters, that all little boys were cruel and uncaring, including her own. A glance at her hand, at the thick white childhood scar that ran the length of it, and she resolved to abandon any boy she had to the cold streets, if it didn't take to them itself, like her first one had.

She had once dreamt that her prince would come and rescue her from her stupid, homely self. Somehow, she knew, even then, that there was no prince for her. She didn’t wait for a prince. She married the first corrupt court magician that came along, so to speak. With a sense of despair, she knew that the little vision of the warm and happy home could never be hers.

There was no love to make it so.

The sudden scent of hot bread jolted her into remembering her task. She trudged into a bakery and pointed to a loaf. Reaching into her pocket for the coin that would pay for it, her jaw went slack with horror.

It was gone.

And with it went the chance for anything to eat on Christmas Eve. The hard-eyed baker read her expression perfectly and promptly ignored her for the next customer. Ingrid flushed scarlet with shock, fear, and embarassment, and stumbled out into the cold streets of Paris. Everything grew bleak in that instant. She knew she had to return home, there was nothing to do but return home--but what home had she to return to? A bridge. But to get there, she would have to make it over one bridge. Every time she crossed that bridge, she felt the Seine calling her, drawing her in. It would be so easy, so simple. Just one small jump, a little bit of cold water, and everything would become gentle oblivion. Steps slowing, she wondered how she could possibly avoid the siren that seemed to inhabit the Seine and called out in a soft melody to the lonely and despairing. Slower and slower she walked, finally stopping in the center of the stone bridge.

It would be so painless, so easy. As she stared into the dark waters, looking hungrily for answers, she found herself pulling herself onto the thick rail. So easy...

A hand clamped down on her shoulder and pulled her away from the rail. She wheeled around hastily and found herself gaping into the hard, dark eyes of a patrolling Inspector. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her menacingly, and she quickly took to her feet and fled. As she ran, the sound of the water dimmed in her ears, and she was a little horrified at what she had almost done. What would her children have done without her? Their miserly wolf of a father could never have cared for them properly. As she ducked down alleys and streets lined with shabby buildings, following a carefully mapped out route to her own bridge-home, things didn’t really seem quite so bad. What if they didn’t have a silly loaf of bread for their Christmas Eve dinner? They were still a family, her and her little girls and Pierre. A tiny flicker of hope appeared in her heart, and she picked up the pace a little.

As she walked into the bridge, she saw the strangely imposing, wiry figure of her husband turn to look at her expectingly. A feeling of dread washed over her, and she showed her empty hands. A muted snarl growled in his throat, and he slapped her across the face.

"Fool! Where is the money I gave you? Can’t you even do something so simple, so ridiculously simple, as fetching a loaf of bread without botching it up?"

"I... I lost it." she whispered. Icy fear welled up inside of her, and she babbled on. "I--there was a hole in the pocket of my skirt, a huge hole, I... I couldn’t... I didn’t know... I..." His face distorted with sudden fury, and his hand came up for another blow across the face. Then he stalked to the other side of the bridge and stood there, glaring hatefully at the world. Silently crying, Ingrid shrank away into the corner, avoiding the jaded eyes of her two girls. When did they ever get so old? After a cool moment, Eponine spoke.

"No bread? Just as well. Christmas was never for people like us."

People like us. Her daughter’s words echoed in her head. Merry Christmas, indeed... she thought to herself, as the wind turned her tears to ice. Indeed.

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